


Crossed Signals

by Mizzy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Misunderstandings, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 07:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: Running for their lives is starting to be an increasingly annoying event. John is too used to following Sherlock without understanding what's going on.





	Crossed Signals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyarcherfan3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyarcherfan3/gifts).



> I wrote this literally seven years ago for ladyarcherfan3 on livejournal and did not archive this here. HOW. WHY. WHAT WAS I THINKING. It's completely gen and was written a month before season 2 even came out, so there's no spoilers for anything.

John's still panting when Sherlock makes a move to leave the small alley they found to hide in. He makes a face of displeasure to Sherlock's back. It's not a waste that Sherlock can't actually see it, because Sherlock will have deduced it anyway, and Sherlock  _thinking_  about John's childish face pulling is close enough for him.  
  
He has to jog to catch up with Sherlock. They ran across the airport at full tilt, ducking down behind cars and through a couple of shops before finding the alley, so Sherlock's purposeful stride is a confusing switch. As usual, John feels lightyears behind his flatmate when it comes to understanding the situation.  
  
"The threat's obviously gone, you can calm down," Sherlock says, as John skips and swerves to avoid a public rubbish bin and manages to finally walk next to Sherlock. He glances at John for a moment, a brief rare flash of curiosity on his angular face. "It's only been six months since you left the Army. Your fitness level has decreased at a much sharper rate than it should have; I suggest perhaps partaking in a regular cardio workout. I find fencing, while perhaps a little antiquated for some social circles, is an adequate workout for maintaining my fitness to a level that suits our hectic pace across London."  
  
"I," John starts, and tries to quietly haul in a burning breath, "what?"  
  
"I'll arrange you some lessons with Irma Strenk. Normally she trains women, but she makes them favour their left leg and you have a distinct right heel bias when you're dodging anything larger than a teabag."  
  
"And don't think we won't have words later about your unusual choice of projectile in the flat."  
  
"Words," Sherlock says, dismissively. "Yours in particular often tend towards the pedestrian."  
  
"Thank you very much," John says, not knowing if Sherlock means his words are pedestrian, or his own choice of projectile (the closest thing to hand - a tea towel), but he takes offense to both. He swallows back the sarcastic bitching he wants to make. He used to say exactly what he wanted to, but Sherlock takes that as permission to perform a post-mortem on John's personality, and John's pretty keen to keep whatever remains of his strained self esteem. "So, who were we running from?"  
  
Sherlock slows his pace a little.  
  
"No answer? Since when do you have no answer?"  
  
"I presumed you would have accumulated enough information on our foes to be able to identify them from your position. I was looking towards the concourse. You clearly had a good forty degree advantage of sight than me, and-"  
  
"Sherlock," John says, stopping and shoving his hands in his pockets and staring at Sherlock like he's completely lost it - which anyone would say wasn't too much of a stretch. "I don't understand."  
  
"You made the signal," Sherlock says, sounding like he's incredibly tired of John's stupidity (he uses the tone so much John just washes over it).  
  
John stares. He  _feels_  like an idiot for sure. "What signal?"  
  
"You scratched your nose three times. Indicating three potential enemies heading in our direction. From your gaze they must have been over my right shoulder; I extrapolated an impeccable escape route." Sherlock stares at John like he's the biggest moron in the world.  
  
"Um," John says, "and this is a signal I'm meant to know? Is it the international signal for bogies on your six?"  
  
"No," Sherlock says, slowly, "it's the set of signals we discussed over those abominable dumplings eleven weeks ago. You know, should we be in a position where we see enemies better than the other."  
  
"Sherlock," John says, "eleven weeks ago I was still on the painkillers from the pool incident."  
  
"Must you be so gauche to bring that up again," Sherlock mutters, starting to walk away again, too fast. John sighs and hurries to match his pace again.  
  
"I fell asleep three bites  _into_  those dreadful dumplings."  
  
Sherlock stops again, abruptly; John has to do a fancy sidestep to avoid walking into a postbox. "You often appear asleep when listening to me," Sherlock says. "97% of the time you're faking it and are still listening."  
  
"Well, make a mental note that this was a 3% incident," John says. "I had an itchy nose."  
  
"Right," Sherlock says, squinting a little. "So Mycroft will have footage of us legging it out of there like lunatics with no one actually chasing us. Excellent."  
  
John can't help the grin at Sherlock's utterly morose tone. "Yes. Quite."  
  
"Well," Sherlock says, and starts moving again. He's mostly moving now to avoid John seeing the smile that's crept up onto his face. The situation is pretty funny. John can picture now how it must have looked to any outside observer - two guys, hanging out in an airport, then one scratches his nose and then both start running like the devil's behind them, "I'll explain the system to you again then as we walk back home. The exercise will keep you awake so you can't even pretend to be asleep when I'm talking."  
  
"Excellent," John says, fully deadpan.  
  
They get all the way to the signal for an oncoming natural disaster (smoothing your right eyebrow with your left-hand pinkie finger, for future reference) when John remembers they were at the airport originally to pick Harry up. He facepalms and groans at his stupidity. Harry'll be  _furious_  he's left her there...  
  
Sherlock stares at John, and starts backing away, sprinting as soon as he's a few metres away from John towards the nearest payphone. John's confused until he remembers - slapping the face means one has discovered a possibly contagious rash on one's body.  
  
John laughs - Harry'll be mad  _whatever_  time he turns up now, so he can spare another ten minutes - and he starts to chase after Sherlock. Sherlock deserves a good scare for coming up with such a stupid system, after all.


End file.
